


Down and Out

by withtalkofsummertime



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gender-diverse Les Amis!, M/M, POC Les Amis!, it got worse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withtalkofsummertime/pseuds/withtalkofsummertime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a modern-day world, Les Amis are fighting the food crisis. Their plan to bring food to the poorest people in their town goes awry, leading Enjolras to use his high-society connections in a dastardly plan to assassinate the President. He is wounded direly in the process and comes back...wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

One

Enjolras paced the room. His hands were clenched into fists, feet stomping a staccato on the wood beneath him. The rest of the Amis stared, silenced by their leader’s intensity, seated in the gathered armchairs and couches of the Marching Cafe. It was usually a bright cafe, with windows letting in light from the west, but at night the street lamps shone in. The orange walls were dimly lit with sconces. Photography took up most of the wall space. There were few other patrons in the cafe; the group took up most of the seating, and this late in the evening few people wanted coffee. Grantaire thought Enjolras had maybe had a bit too much too late in the day as he continued pacing and fidgeting.

"It's not working!” Enjolras burst out. “These smaller actions, they're not working. We have to strive for something more large-scale." He glanced up, mouth set, into the eyes of his cohort. Combeferre and Courfeyrac started back at him, both their mouths set--nervousness or resolve?

Grantaire couldn't be sure. He sat to the side of the heated discussion, with the rest of the Amis. They usually talked and drank as their three leaders planned, but tonight the mood was too tense for such cavorting. Enjolras's mood too much like a grenade about to go off.

The Amis had been working in ever-expanding capacities for as long as Grantaire had known them, and before. They had started with Enjolras and his friends' volunteer work in high school--something to get credits, at first. But it had flourished under Enjolras's insistence upon making a difference in the world. His idealism shone like a beacon, calling like-minded people. And of course, Grantaire as well. Where his other friends were always on board, if perhaps in more reserved ways than Enjolras himself, Grantaire had come with hope and stayed out of hopelessness.

He despaired over the rising waves of crimes against the citizens, which was what they were fighting against, but there was another layer of pessimistic longing on top of that. Enjolras, the intense leader that he was, had no time for anyone who didn't share his beliefs. Enjolras could never love him back. Oh, he was nice enough to their other friends: Combeferre and Courfeyrac caught most of his affection, being his oldest friends, but he did his best to spread it around equally. Even Grantaire, in the beginning, had received his fair share of Enjolras's affection.

It was perhaps all too overwhelming: the man was overzealous to a fault, both in work and in friendship. When they talked Grantaire could feel the weight of Enjolras's undivided attention, and his eyes never swayed from Grantaire's. Emboldened by this attention, but brought down by the depressing news of the world, he had grown more and more talkative at meetings of the Amis. He'd spout off the most recent heart-wrenching story, to get those eyes on him and feel the beat of his own heart in his ears. Overwhelming, yes, but exhilarating. He got more attention from Enjolras as a nuisance than he ever did as a friend. So he needled the man, dooming himself to a cycle of lather, rinse, repeat with Enjolras's annoyance and attention. What else was there? He couldn't pretend to be like the others, with blind optimism and righteous fury; he tended towards a more melancholy view of it all, wondering why they tried so hard to make change when so many bad things happened every day.

That was where he and Enjolras often ended up in their arguments. Grantaire would say, "Why do you even try?"

And Enjolras would tell him, "Nothing happens if no one makes it happen.”

Grantaire wondered if Enjolras had some sort of mental block--did the painful news stories not affect him? Had he turned of his emotional response, to get the job done? And the flip side: was Grantaire himself too emotional? Was he inefficient at doing anything, so steeped in his own feelings? He wondered which was the better path. _Probably Enjolras’s_ , he told himself late at night.

But it was day, and Enjolras was speaking again. "We need to go--bigger," he was saying, pulling his hands apart with a jolt.

"Bigger...how?" Courfeyrac asked tentatively.

"We need to do more."

"I get that, Enjolras, I really do, but how, exactly?" This was Combeferre, always bringing Enjolras into the reality of his dreams.

"Something to get food," Enjolras said. "What do people need more than anything? Food and water." Combeferre started to say something, but Enjolras cut him off, his eyes showing that fervor the Amis were all used to. "We've got to get food into the food deserts. Get healthy food to the poor, to people without access."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"I...don't know." Enjolras frowned. "I mean, I only just thought of it."

"You did," Combeferre agreed. "So let's all think about it and come up with a realistic, _achievable_ plan. Okay?"

Enjolras looked at his two best friends then. At times like this it seemed to Grantaire that Combeferre was Enjolras’s handler, keeping him to a realistic planning process rather than letting him run off into thoughts of coups and overthrowing the status quo. It was Combeferre who had gotten the group started with things like volunteering with children, where Enjolras would have preferred to work in places like food banks--at least there they'd be working with adults. But he acquiesced to Combeferre then and he acquiesced now, sitting down as Combeferre brought the meeting to a close.

Enjolras rested his chin on one palm, pouting prettily. He was frustratingly driven, committed from the very beginning of an idea, and would be mulling over his new idea for the rest of the night. Grantaire stood and sauntered over to Enjolras as the formal meeting broke up, their friends moving once more into a comfortable chatter.

"No sense of work-play balance," Grantaire said, shaking his head teasingly. "You have to let loose sometime."

"Not when I've got a good idea," Enjolras told him. He was properly sulking now. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were speaking in the corner to Bella, so Grantaire took a seat next to Enjolras. The man beside him continued to stare into space, giving him no attention.

Grantaire felt the tingling in his skin, that ever-present alertness when Enjolras was in the room, but despite that he grew bored. He ordered food, and drink, for both of them. But Enjolras paid no mind to the food or Grantaire for several minutes, leaving Grantaire to eat in silence while Enjolras's own food grew cold. Suddenly Enjolras dropped his hand from where it propped up his chin, and turned to Grantaire. "Do you have paper? And pen?"

Grantaire obligingly reached into his bag to search. "Don't you have your own?"

"Bag's across the room," Enjolras said dismissively. Grantaire handed the requested items over to Enjolras.

"Knock yourself out." But the other man had already begun to scribble furiously, and Grantaire could see bullet points being jotted down. Enjolras hunched possessively over his work, which wasn't particularly surprising, and glared at the page. He pressed down hard with the pen as he wrote.

"Easy there," Grantaire told him. "Don't break my pen."

"Oh. Sorry." Enjolras lightened his grip and the ink flowed more easily, with no more dents in the paper.

"What are you writing there?"

Enjolras always worked better with a person to use as a sounding board, rather than a blank page. "It's what I was starting to think about during the meeting. Food. In places where there isn't enough, or isn't anything healthy."

"And what do you plan to do about it? We already work with food banks," Grantaire pointed out.

“Yes, but that's not enough. It's not making a big enough dent in the problem, and it's certainly not sending any sort of message to the government." Enjolras twisted his face in a grimace as he mentioned the authorities.

"Ah, your favorite people!" Grantaire teased. "You mean your artful tagging doesn't send enough of a message? You need to tag poor communities with your name now?"

"That is so rude," Enjolras whispered heatedly. "My graffiti and my work with the Amis have nothing to do with each other."

"The personal is political, Enjolras," Grantaire sing-songed.

"Do you want to hear about my idea or not?"

"Of course, of course I do. Please, go on.”

"We need to do something to really get people living in food deserts on even ground. They don't have anything to eat!"

"I know," Grantaire pointed out. "I live in a food desert, if you've forgotten."

"Oh. Right."

"Go on." Grantaire leaned forward on his elbows, eyes on Enjolras.

"We need to get a lot of food to a lot of people, and fast, before they shut us down. It's hard enough to work in food banks with all the red tape, imagine how hard it'll be to do something with more impact."

"What if we circumnavigate the red tape?"

“How?" Enjolras looked intrigued now, leaning forward himself to listen.

"Break into their food stores," Grantaire suggested with a shrug.

Enjolras sat still for a moment, staring at him with a small frown of thought. Then he seized Grantaire's shoulders and grinned. "That's a great idea!"

"It is?" Grantaire's shoulders hunched in under Enjolras's grip.

"I think so.” He called over Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who listened intently to Enjolras’s excited explanation of Grantaire’s idea.

"It would send a message," Combeferre allowed. He was a tall man, careful in his speech and always reliable. He slept with a gun under his pillow, just in case. Enjolras beamed at this first approval.

Courfeyrac nodded slowly as she and Combeferre joined them at the table. "Which food store?" she asked.

"Something close to a food desert, but affluent enough to have good food, and plenty of it."

"Marchesse Road?" Combeferre suggested.

"Yes! Close to the Fibers' District, but not in it. Close enough for people to gather and take food, but not too far to be inconvenient for them."

"We'll have to get the word out," Courfeyrac said.

"Tagging, I think," Enjolras said thoughtfully.

"Of course," Grantaire interjected. He’d sat back and watched the three work in concert, Combeferre and Courfeyrac complementing Enjolras.

Together the three of them formed a complete brain--alone, Enjolras would have lacked the social skills and reasoning to make any sort of difference. His friends made up the missing parts of him. "Like vitamins," Combeferre said, smiling wryly. It was a joy to watch them bring an idea into being, each offering and building on the ideas of their fellows. Enjolras spared barely a glance for Grantaire beside him, focusing on Combeferre and Courfeyrac across from him instead. Combeferre had eyes only for Enjolras--Grantaire couldn't blame him. But Courfeyrac smiled at him, and laughed at his snark when the other two glared or, worse, ignored. They planned, and Grantaire watched, late into the night. The other Amis trickled out of the cafe, leaving the three leaders huddled in conference. Grantaire reclined in his chair, a good vantage point, and stuck out like a sore thumb.

When Enjolras continuously pushed his hair back, and Combeferre rested his glasses on the table to rub his eyes, and even Courfeyrac was wilting, Grantaire stood. "Well, friends, it's been a pleasure. I'm sure you'll have a complete plan by tomorrow, but for now I think it's time for bed."

"Don't be ridiculous," Enjolras snapped. It lacked the bite of a more awake man.

"Yeah, okay."

Grantaire brought his glass to the lone barista, thanked her, and lingered by the door a moment before leaving. Enjolras attempted to convince the others that they could continue to work, he wasn't tired, but when he yawned the other two stood and began to pack up their belongings.

The leader sighed and began to put his own things away, moving slowly. His excitement was still present--Grantaire could see it working behind his eyes--but the energy had bled out of him as the night wore on. When Enjolras looked up and found Grantaire's eyes on him, Grantaire turned and left the cafe.

The night was cold and biting. Pulling out his phone, Grantaire saw that it was nearly one in the morning. They’d probably held up the cafe’s closing. The Marching Cafe had a lenient policy, generally closing when the last patrons left, but staying into the next day was hardly fair to the employees. He made a mental note to needle Enjolras with that thought when they met next and let out a little humph of laughter. It hung in the silent night air.

Grantaire walked the long way home, feeling his feet hit the pavement in a steady beat. He hummed as he went. The houses got shabbier and shabbier, turning from single-family brownstones into buildings of ten and more units. As he passed the last liquor-store-and-grocery Grantaire sighed. _Food desert._ It meant he was fifteen minutes from his very own dingy apartment building. The blocks passed in a slight blur of landmarks--there's the weird mailbox, and the house that leaves their garbage bins on the sidewalk--before he rounded the corner of the steps up to his building. He let himself in and shrugged off his jacket, leaving it on the floor as he toed off his shoes. The mattress on the floor was welcoming, the blanket thick and warm as he pulled it over himself. _Home_.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is called upon.

Early the next morning, Combeferre texted Grantaire. The buzz of the phone against the floor woke him, and he fumbled for it, squinting into the screen. **Enjolras wants your help.**

**Cause I'm poor?** Grantaire flopped back onto the bed, letting his phone fall to the side. It buzzed.

**Basically.**

_Never say Combeferre's not honest,_ he thought with a sigh. **Where and when?**

**Cafe, now.**

**Now??????**

**He's excited.**

Grantaire groaned, covering his face with his hands, before rolling out of bed. **Okay**.

He pulled on the same beaten leather jacket he'd left on the floor hours before, pushed his feet into the same shoes he'd kicked off, and left. He'd never even pulled his wallet from the coat pocket. The bus passed him on the street as he walked. Of course.

When he reached the cafe, it was back to its usual arrangement. The windows let in the soft western light, facing away from the glaring sun. The couches and armchairs were back to their spots against the wall and dispersed across the floor. Combeferre was in line for coffee, and Courfeyrac was presumably still asleep--she wasn’t a morning person. Enjolras sat by a window, looking out.

"What can I do for you, Enjolras?" Grantaire winced internally as he said it, afraid as he had been so many times before that Enjolras would see right through him to the truth.

But he ignored the question. "Here," he said, "Have some water." He pushed the glass in front of him across to Grantaire, who took it and drank.

"Thanks."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Except you woke me up obscenely early."

"Grantaire, it's ten o'clock."

"Yeah, and I got home at nearly two."

"But how are you feeling?" Enjolras repeated.

"I told you, I'm fine. No panic attacks for a week."

"That's good!" Enjolras grinned widely.

Grantaire took a sip of his water. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

"Okay." Grantaire continued to sip on his water, one eyebrow raised.

"I need your input on this plan we're forming."

"Oh? Me?”

"You have more experience than I do."

"With...?"

Enjolras fixed him with a disapproving glare.

"Oh!" Grantaire exclaimed mockingly. "With being poor! Not having access to food, that kind of thing."

"Yes." Grantaire smirked at Enjolras's rigid discomfort. "And what input do you want?"

"Should we break into Marchesse Road or Daisy Fields to bring food to people? Which would be more helpful?"

"You know what would be really great?"

"What?" Enjolras looked genuinely curious, looking at Grantaire with interested eyes.

Grantaire relished it for a brief moment. "It'd be great if you broke into one--doesn't matter which--and then let people get their own food."

"Give them back their agency! I love it!"

_And I love you. Ugh, shut up._ "Good. You come in with your rich white boy savior shit and you're just gonna make people mad."

Combeferre approached them, drinking his coffee, and nodded thoughtfully as he caught Grantaire’s last sentence. “It’s true, you know,” he told Enjolras.

“I’m not a--” Enjolras began, his pale skin turning pink. His words halted suddenly as he took in Combeferre and Grantaire’s skeptical brown faces looking back at him. “Maybe I can be sometimes.”

“We know you don’t mean to,” Combeferre said kindly, patting him on the shoulder.

"Grantaire thinks we should break the store open and let people get their own food." Enjolras looked up at Combeferre for his approval.

"Sounds like an improvement to your plan," Combeferre said.

"I think so," Grantaire offered.

"This is why I asked for your help, see?"

"Yes, you'd be lost without me." Grantaire leaned forward and patted Enjolras's hand where it rested on the table between them.

"Right. So, Daisy Fields or Marchesse Road?"

"Marchesse," Combeferre said. "Closer to rich areas, they'll have better food than at the Fields."

"And Courfeyrac will get us in," Enjolras continued. "When?"

"Next weekend. Just before Christmas."

"Good idea. Holiday cheer, and all that," Combeferre said.

"We should start letting people know," Enjolras said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but you can't advertise it like a normal protest. Keep it under wraps," Grantaire pointed out. "No gaudy tagging."

"I know that," Enjolras told him. "We'll use code."

"They'll be watching Marchesse the moment you write it anywhere.”

“Courfeyrac can go in her brother’s old uniform. Piece of cake,” Enjolras said dismissively.

"Shouldn't you ask Courfeyrac about that?" Combeferre asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I will, but I can't imagine she'll say no."

"It's good to ask."

"I know." Enjolras looked properly chastised, dropping his eyes for a moment before returning to the matter at hand. "Will you help me get the word out?" This was directed at Grantaire.

"Me?"

"You."

"This my...experience being useful again, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"Come with me, show me where it'll be most effective to tag."

Grantaire sighed. "Okay."

Enjolras turned to Combeferre to discuss some article, and Grantaire found himself leaning back and watching as he had the night before. He shook his head and stood to leave, finishing his glass of water as he did so. Was that something white in the bottom of the glass? "They need to clean their glasses better," he remarked.

"You'll be fine," Enjolras told him absently before returning to his conversation with Combeferre.

"Well, I'm just gonna...go..." Combeferre nodded at him over his coffee, a sympathetic gesture as Enjolras lifted a nonchalant hand without looking at Grantaire.

*******

To no one's surprise, Courfeyrac agreed to use her brother's uniform to help them break into the Marchesse Road food storage unit. Her brother and Enjolras had similar goals but went about them in fundamentally different ways: where Enjolras prided himself on being subversive and contrary to the government, Courfeyrac's brother John chose to work at it from within the government. He was a guard at a school in a similar neighborhood to Grantaire's and said he protected the students from negative influences in the neighborhood. Grantaire said John kept the children captive in their lack of opportunities.

Despite this, John allowed his sister to use his privileges when needed, and agreed to give them both his outfit and his entrance pass on his day off, the following Sunday. Courfeyrac would dress in her brother's uniform and use his badge to enter the building at Marchesse Road, then shut down the alarms and let everyone else in.

Grantaire and Enjolras went out on Monday morning to put up their coded messages. Enjolras had initially wanted to work in the evening, under the cover of night, but Grantaire had pointed out the flaw in that plan: police would be patrolling, looking for anyone suspicious, at night. It was better to go in the early morning and blend in with those streaming to their blue-collar jobs. Enjolras acquiesced to this, and they met at the corner of Arden and Drivers' Street in the Fibers' District. The neighborhood was crowded with textile factories, smoke billowing as the workers entered the buildings.

Grantaire laughed upon spotting Enjolras standing still as the workers moved around him, like a stone in a stream. He had tried to dress down, Grantaire could tell, but his jeans were still well-made and unripped, his black coat still well-fitted to him rather than hanging off his frame, his eyes watching too sharply in the grey morning light. At Grantaire's laughter he looked down at himself. "Did I already do something wrong?"

Grantaire just shook his head teasingly. "Rich white boy," he said.

Enjolras scowled. "Let's just do this."

They walked along the edges of the buildings, letting the crowd hide them from the street’s view. They stopped to the right of each building's entrance, where Enjolras crouched to the ground and wrote a coded message telling those who could read it to meet them at Marchesse Road on Sunday. There was a signature, though not Enjolras's: he left the Amis' signature below the message.

As he stood again after writing each message, those walking behind them glanced down to see what they had left. Enjolras tried to make eye contact the first few times, but Grantaire dragged him along impatiently. "You want people to know it was you?"

When they'd marked up each building along the main road of factories in the Fibers' District, Grantaire called it good. They had been criss-crossing the street to mark each side evenly, Enjolras striding confidently as Grantaire hurried along behind him. Grantaire had hissed to him more than once: "Can you act like you belong?" But try as he might, Enjolras carried himself with too much confidence to pass for a worker in the Fibers' District. Grantaire, in his dirty grey jeans and 3-a-pack t-shirt, fit in much better. Workers surreptitiously eyed the writing left behind, and Enjolras watched with a small smile before Grantaire pulled him away. Enjolras texted the rest of the Amis quickly; Grantaire felt the buzz in his own pocket.

The following night, Tuesday, Enjolras held court at the cafe in an unofficial meeting. Combeferre and Courfeyrac watched from their seats as he stood and declaimed with his back to the window. Grantaire, walking down the sidewalk, paused with a view of Enjolras in profile. He was beautiful. His hands stretched out in a plea for their friends to follow him to the ends of the earth. His blond hair caught the glinting light of the streetlamps and the diffuse light of the cafe, warmly lit and sparkling at the same time. Grantaire couldn't see his face fully, watching from the darkness, but could see the left side of his face: mouth moving calmly, eyes watching the small crowd before him.

Grantaire pulled the door of the cafe open, steeling himself. “Miss me?” Enjolras glared at him where he stood awkwardly behind their seated friends. “No?”

“Have a seat, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied tersely. “As I was saying, our efforts in the schools and food banks have been far from squandered, but it is time to expand our efforts into bigger endeavors, endeavors with more impact.” The words left his lips crisply. He enunciated with the love of language, and gestured with sure hands.

“And how are we going to make this impact?” Combeferre asked. Grantaire could see it had been rehearsed, the perfect in-road for Enjolras to build excitement.

“Meet us at Marchesse Road and Delaney, Sunday at four in the afternoon. That’s all I can say right now.”

"That's it?" Someone called from the back, and Grantaire twisted to see who it was. He was surprised--a heckler who wasn't him? But no one stood to claim the comment, and as one the group turned back to look to Enjolras.

"That's all for now. Meet us there. You won't be disappointed." He took his own seat, then, between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The three bent their heads together and were lost to the rest of the group.

Grantaire turned the man beside him. "Someone else bugged Enjolras tonight, you proud?"

Jehan smiled against his own will, shaking his head. "I don't know why you insist on torturing yourself."

"But that's my point, dear friend, tonight I didn't. Someone else annoyed him, saving me from myself."

"You just like hearing yourself talk." Jehan grinned at him.

Grantaire threw an offended hand to his own chest. "How dare you!"

His friend stared back at him a moment longer, still with that knowing smile, then stood abruptly. "Want some food?"

"Whatever you're having."

"I'm having salad."

"Tell me, why do you torture yourself? I will have..." He paused, tapping his chin in dramatic thought, then finished speaking: "A croissant. Please." Jehan walked away, and he called out to the man's back: "You're a saint!" Chuckling to himself, he set to picking at the label of his drink.

"Remember to drink your water," a voice said. A pale hand slid a glass into his view. Grantaire looked up and found Enjolras standing across from him.

"Brought me water? What is this, a thank you for not talking during your meeting?"

"You got here late enough, there was barely an opportunity for you to heckle." Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "But I need you not-hungover, so let's save the drinks for after the campaign."

"You make it sound so respectable," Grantaire teased. "Campaign? Are you running for office, Enjolras?"

He scoffed, blue eyes flashing. "You know what I mean."

"Oh," Grantaire said, exaggerating his fake epiphany. "You mean the break-in.”

"It's a surprise," Enjolras hissed to him.

"Oh, Enjolras. You're so easy to ruffle. Look, your hair's puffing up."

Enjolras put a hand to his hair, checking that it was still lying where he'd arranged it. "It is not."

Grantaire shrugged. "The point stands."

"Well, as I say--don't drink too much. I need you alert." Enjolras turned to leave, to hold court with some other member of the Amis. Grantaire found himself calling after a second blue-eyed, blond-haired man in the space of ten minutes.

"I thought my part was done!"

"Is anyone's part ever done?" Enjolras said over his shoulder.

"Wow. Deep," Grantaire muttered.

Jehan returned, bearing a croissant and a number for his salad. "What was that about?"

"He brought me some water, that's all. Wants me at my peak, you know, integral as I am."

"Mmm. I got you the chocolate kind."

The croissant was warm when Grantaire took it, and the chocolate inside was messy. It was rich, too, requiring sips of water between bites. He was grateful for the water Enjolras had brought, and noticed no residue like he'd seen before. Enjolras, across the cafe, caught his eye and nodded with a raised eyebrow.

***

At the official Challenger meeting on Friday evening, Enjolras was fairly buzzing with energy. He refused to elaborate on the plan for breaking into Marchesse Road, and instead flitted from topic to topic. Finally Combeferre took his arm and pulled him to a seat, saying "Why don't you let me take this one?" Enjolras went with minimal protest, pulling out a pill bottle and downing something--probably an Ativan, if Grantaire had to guess. Something to calm him down. Combeferre led the group for the evening, informing them of the recent statistics from the school district and congratulating them. Grantaire rolled his eyes at the self-congratulatory conversation.

Enjolras sat in silence for the most part, shielding his eyes from the rest of the group. Occasionally he would talk over Combeferre or someone else like he couldn't keep the words inside. "Do you think--" and "What if--?" He tugged at Combeferre's sleeve, and quailed only briefly when he received that Look over the top of his glasses. Enjolras fidgeted, tapping his foot, and Grantaire took pity on him. He went to the counter and got the man more water, kneeling and delivering it to him quietly.

"Thanks," Enjolras said. His face was softer than usual, eyes shadowed as he took the glass.He pulled a different pill bottle from the bag slung over the back of his chair, and emptied the capsule's powder into the water, stirring it.

"Easy there," Grantaire told him.

"It's just a sleeping pill. You can't even taste it," Enjolras said. "I just want to sleep until this thing is done with."

"Well, we need you alert," Grantaire parroted back to him.

"Yeah, I know," Enjolras said, drawing a hand over his forehead. "It's just hard to keep up this level of energy, you know?"

Grantaire refused to raise an eyebrow or show any surprise at being Enjolras's confidante. "I'm sure it is."

"Not that you'd know anything about that. No, I--" His eyes flew open as Grantaire recoiled and he reached out to take hold of Grantaire's shoulder. "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay. I'm kind of a deadbeat."

"You're not. You always come to meetings."

"To annoy you," he pointed out.

Enjolras’s hand came up again to rub at the middle of his forehead. "Grantaire, I don't mean to be all horrible-social-skills, but the medicine is kicking in and I don't think I have the energy to tell you all the nice things about yourself I should."

Grantaire patted his shoulder. "That's alright. No use trying to think of any." He stood and gestured for Courfeyrac to join Enjolras before leaving the cafe.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things start going to hell.

Enjolras and Combeferre were already there when Grantaire arrived at the corner of Marchesse Road. Courfeyrac was already inside. Enjolras held himself rigidly, tapping the fingers of one hand against the other. Grantaire joined them. They stood against the side of a building across from the food storage unit trying not to look suspicious. Grantaire wasn’t sure it worked with the way Enjolras kept looking up and down the street and checking his phone for Courfeyrac's word. But it buzzed in his hand as he was looking at it and Enjolras jumped slightly, like he was surprised it actually worked. "The door should be open," he whispered. "I'm gonna go try it out."

It was 3:45 in the afternoon and people were starting to trickle by, walking slowly as they approached the three, recognizing Enjolras. He tried to sneak towards the door to the unit, but gave up on it after a moment when he had to walk across the street. He pulled the door open, no guards in sight, and eyed the camera above the entrance--it should have been off, if Courfeyrac had already given them the go-ahead. The door swung open. He stepped inside and pushed both doors open in a whoosh, standing triumphant in the open doorway.

"Come on!" He beckoned Combeferre, Grantaire, and the rest of the gathered people into the building, and they go, whooping and shouting as they do. The people have caught on now, drawn by the mysterious messages left in the Fibers’ District and Enjolras’s own invitation in the cafe. They pushed into the grey hallway of the storage facility, Enjolras at the lead. He opened doors in succession: grain, produce, cans, boxed foods, frozen foods. Each door opened without protest. The only door that didn’t open was the guards’ break room--Courfeyrac had blocked herself and the real guards in there.

Grantaire shuddered to think of it. But she can take care of herself, she knew the risks… Those thoughts didn’t really help. Instead he forcibly changed his train of thought, turning to look at the people streaming in past Enjolras. They stay quiet as they do, still trying to avoid the guards' attention even though they're locked up. The first people emerged from the storage unit several minutes later, carrying as much food as they could and saying they'll be back soon with bags for more food. People texted and called their friends, family, even acquaintances, letting them know about the free food.

The boxed food was the first to go, light and non-perishable, followed by cans, and finally produce and frozen foods. These people acted like they've gotten a new pantry, and helped themselves to it. Grantaire couldn’t blame them; he went in too. Enjolras stayed by the door, smiling at people, but didn’t take any food for himself. He didn’t need to. Combeferre was nowhere to be found.

Then, among the joyous shouts, the police came. They began by yelling at the people, their brusque, angry voices drowning out the happiness, then quickly progressed to pulling people from the building. The stream of humanity broke down by the advancing wall of cops. Enjolras stood at the door and held it open for as long as he could. Grantaire shouldered his full backpack and rushed out, dodging the cops as they were busy detaining people.

A pang of guilt rushed through him. He should have helped, right? Stayed and stood his ground? But his feet kept moving even as he thought it, and he was home before he’d finished deciding to go there. He didn’t know where Enjolras, Combeferre, and the rest of the Amis are--who even showed up?--much less Courfeyrac. The backpack fell to the ground, cans clanking against the floor, as he sank into a crouch on the floor. Oh, god.

***

The good news is that Enjolras barely spent ten minutes in the police station. He had been railing against the cops when they took his ID and shook their heads. That name--Delac--they couldn’t keep him. Not the son of a Marshall. They forced him out of the cell, undid his handcuffs, and pushed him out of the precinct door. Enjolras went to the cafe and texted the whole way there.

An hour later the Amis were all there. Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac made it. Combeferre sports a black eye under his glasses, which are cracked, and Courfeyrac, still in her brother's uniform, was blood-stained. Enjolras looked at them with pursed lips. "This isn't how it was supposed to go."

"It's not your fault, Enjolras," Combeferre told him softly. He took off his broken glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

"It's not. It's theirs."

"Enjolras, please--" Courfeyrac started.

"No! It's because of them, because of this whole system, don't you see? This can't stop us. They just want to scare us."

"It's working," Jehan muttered in the corner. Enjolras glared at him.

"We can't be dissuaded from this. Beaten into submission? Is that what we want to be?"

“We need to know when to stop,” Combeferre said.

“I can’t do that again.” Courfeyrac shook her head.

“We won’t,” Enjolras said gravely. “We have to go bigger.”

Grantaire stood. “Enjolras, don’t. No, I’m still talking,” he said as Enjolras opened his mouth. “Don’t you see what’s happened here? Courfeyrac’s all bloody, Combeferre can’t even see without his glasses. It didn’t work.”

“I refuse to accept that. The people--”

“We are the people.”

“The people know it’s time for a revolution. They will follow us. We strike higher--at the capital. Meeting dismissed.” And with that Enjolras took a seat, at a separate table from Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It only had one chair.

Grantaire went to stand in front of Enjolras’s solitary table, arms crossed, and coughed until Enjolras looked up. “Yes?”

"You know this is not feasible."

"I know no such thing."

"Enjolras, please, see reason. We can't do this again."

"I already said, we're not going to. We need to attack higher in the food chain." There was a pun there, but Grantaire was hardly going to point it out. "The President is our best bet for making an impact."

Grantaire scoffed. "The president doesn't care."

"Of course not," Enjolras said with a flippant hand. "That doesn't mean he's immune to force."

"Enjolras, you can't be serious." Grantaire leaned in to whisper. "Attacking the President? Like that's going to help our cause?"

"It'll send a message." Enjolras sat back and crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. "I can get in. I'm the son of a Marshall."

"You're going to pull the privilege card?" Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"If it will further the cause, I will." Enjolras stood abruptly. "I'm hungry. Do you need anything?"

"I, um, no, I'm good," Grantaire said, surprised by the consideration. Never let it be said Enjolras doesn't think of his friends, Grantaire thought.

Enjolras strode to the counter and waited in line there. It was funny to see him in line like a normal person. He can't get everywhere on good looks and a fancy name. Waiting didn’t suit him. He tapped his foot, crossed and uncrossed his arms, and checked his phone several times before getting to the counter. There he ordered, and had to wait some more. The fidgeting continued. Grantaire looked away for a moment and when he looked back--eyes always drawn to Enjolras--the other man was walking towards him, a sandwich and two drinks in hand. One of them went to Grantaire, still standing awkwardly at the table with one chair.

“Enjolras, I really think--”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Enjolras sat in the lone chair and sipped his drink.

“You have to realize--”

“No, I don’t. Come on, Grantaire. Today was rough. Let’s just relax. Can’t you let it go for a night?”

“Me? Let it--?” Grantaire shook his head at the role reversal. “You want me to let it go? You want to relax?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Grantaire turned to leave.

“Don’t forget your drink!” Enjolras held it out to him, an earnest look on his face.

“Thanks.” Grantaire retreated, leaving Enjolras to his meal. He did seem to be relaxing. That was strange. He made no more mention of his idea of striking at the President and eventually rejoined Combeferre and Courfeyrac at their usual table. Grantaire watched him fumble through an apology, watched Combeferre’s eyes soften, watched Enjolras welcomed back into the fold.

“You’re staring,” Jehan whispered in his ear.

“Am not.” But he let himself be pulled into conversation with Jehan, casting only occasional looks at Enjolras. The night passed without incident save for the sleepy feeling Grantaire got early on.

***

Grantaire was hardly surprised when, two days later, Enjolras had a new plan. "You don't all have to join me," he told the group. "But if you want to, I welcome your company." He laid out the plan by hand, avoiding his computer for fear of being spied on.

Three days later it went into effect. Enjolras led the cavalry in his best Marshall's-son outfit. He wore a dark suit tailored to him and his blond hair fell perfectly in that Junior Senator way. He carried a leather briefcase lined to protect the contents from x-rays. Anyone would assume there were papers and Important Documents in the briefcase, but the Amis knew there was a gun contained behind a hidden panel. Enjolras looked put together and composed--he looked like he belonged in the capital, meeting with the President. Grantaire wanted to devour him. He went along with the group--how could he not?--and they were joined by the majority of the Amis. It seemed even the frankly insane nature of the plan hadn’t dissuaded their friends from joining. So they marched, a fairly nondescript group of young people, to the capitol building on Angel Street. It was about as far from the Fibers' District as possible.

Grantaire felt like a sore thumb in his own best clothes: they were old, they didn't fit particularly well, and he'd been told they made the yellow undertones of his brown skin stand out in an unappealing way. Still he went, followed Enjolras and the rest, into the capitol building. Of course he was the only one who got suspicious looks. Brown kid entering, better watch him. He cursed himself for coming along, garnering more attention than Enjolras had wanted at this stage. But their leader strode on, immune to the glances their party received, until they arrived at the end of the tourist visiting area.

Enjolras held onto his briefcase tightly as the others came to a halt behind him. He cleared his throat and turned to a guard. "Hi, I'm Enjolras Delac, I need to see the President."

"This isn't--"

"I know this isn't the usual route to meet with him, but I was hoping you'd make an exception, given who my father is." He kept a charming grin trained on the guard, a nonverbal old-buddy-old-pal, as the guard thought.

"ID?"

"Of course." Enjolras pulled a leather wallet from inside his suit jacket-- _he's vegan_ , Grantaire thought--and withdrew his ID. He handed it to the guard who examined it for a moment, checking for a fake, before sighing. "Your father...knows you're here?" Alan Delac was a conservative Marshall. He'd publicly decried his son's actions at Marchesse Road.

"He does. I'm here to make amends."

"Let me get my manager," the guard told him. He turned and disappeared into a hallway. Another guard came to take his place and eyed them. The original guard returned minutes later with another man and showed him to Enjolras. "This is the guy."

"Enjolras Delac," Enjolras said, holding out his hand. The man shook it warily.

"Well, Mr. Delac, I am inclined to allow you to see the President for a few minutes."

"Thank--"

"You know, you break your father's heart," the manager told him quietly.

Enjolras blinked. "I am trying to make it better."

"I'm glad to hear it. If you'll follow me..." The man turned to retreat down the hallway, but Enjolras halted him with a further comment. "I need to bring one of my associates with me. It's kind of important.” He grinned sheepishly. "I wouldn't ask, but--"

"Fine," the man said. "I need to see his ID too."

"Of course." Enjolras searched the crowd and gestured for Grantaire to join him at the front. He picked his way through the mass of Amis, exchanging bewildered looks with each of them. When he got to the front Enjolras nudged him. "Your ID, Grantaire."

Grantaire pulled his own battered wallet from his pocket and gave his ID to the head guard. It was scrutinized closely, checked against his face multiple times, before the man sighed and nodded. "Follow me."

Grantaire cast a last look over his shoulder. Jehan caught his eyes with a questioning glance. _I don't know_ , he mouthed in response.

 


	4. Four

Grantaire and Enjolras trailed the head guard for several minutes as they took various turns. When Grantaire wondered for the third time just how far they were going, they halted at a door. It was a normal door, nothing special, but when the guard leading them swiped his badge over the reader and it opened, he saw that it led to a large office filled with books, memorabilia, and most importantly, the President.  
“Wait here,” Enjolras murmured, giving his phone to Grantaire. “Combeferre will be in touch. They’re protesting in the visitor area.”  
“Why am I--?”  
But Enjolras turned away, leaving Grantaire watching in silence. "Hello, Mr. President. Thank you for meeting with me."  
"What can I do for you, Mr. Delac?" The President folded his hands on the desk and looked at Enjolras expectantly.  
"I was hoping you'd consider funneling better-quality food into the Fibers' District."  
"I see. Unfortunately, I can't. The people in the Fibers' District don't have the money to pay for such food."  
"They deserve nutritious food regardless of their economic status," Enjolras said. His hands tightened where they rested against his legs. "Sir."  
"I understand that these people are your pet project, Enjolras, but I'm afraid it's just not a high enough priority on the federal level."  
"Is it a high enough priority if the people rise up?"  
The President smiled. "What ever do you mean by that?"  
"I mean, we are joined by the citizens in an uprising. We will demand food."  
"I hardly think that will happen," the President said. He picked up a remote lying on the desk and clicked a button, nodding to a screen behind Enjolras.  
Enjolras turned to look, followed by Grantaire, at the video feed that was displayed on the large screen. It showed their friends, chanting their slogans. But they were hampered by the guards battering them with batons, pulling them down to the floor. "That's against the law," Enjolras said. "You can't attack your own people."  
"I can do whatever I like. Your Amis are a nuisance, Enjolras. I'm prepared to let you go, given your family relations, but your friends here...They have no such connections."  
"So you'll massacre them?" Enjolras stood rigidly, turning from the screen to eye the President.  
"I will eliminate a treasonous radical group."  
"Treasonous?"  
"I know what you say in your meetings, Enjolras."  
"Stop saying my name like that."  
"Like what?"  
"Like we're friends." Enjolras spit out the last word. The security guard at the door shifted.  
"Aren't we? Weren't you born into this life, courtesy of your father's standing in my cabinet?"  
"I don't want it." "Unless it's useful. As it was today, getting you in to see me."  
"Stop."  
"Stop what?"  
"Stop this. You can't murder so many people. The news outlets will jump on it. Everyone will know."  
"Enjolras, please. These kids you've amassed, no one cares about them. Even your friend here. Who will miss him, if he goes missing?" The President nodded to Grantaire.  
"You can't." Enjolras took a step forward and the President leaned forward.  
"Return to your real life, Enjolras. This can't go on."  
"No," Enjolras agreed. "It can't." He sighed and walked around the desk separating him from the desk. "Come to shake on it?"  
"Not quite." Enjolras dropped the briefcase on the floor and reached instead into his suit jacket once more. "I'd say I'm sorry, but..." He withdrew a long, sharp blade of plexiglass and forced the sharp glass into the President's side. As it found its mark, the guard at the doorway drew his gun and fired twice. The booms resounded one after the other as more guards rushed in, guns drawn.  
Enjolras stumbled back, holding his chest, as red blood blossomed against the fine fabric covering the bullet hole. He fell to the floor and landed with a thump. His eyes stayed trained on the President even as security guards rushed around him and hoisted him up and onto their shoulders before removing him from the room. Their radios squawked constantly and the video feed still played, but it was white noise to Grantaire. Words filtered into his ears from far away: “Leave him. We’ll retrieve the body later.”  
Grantaire stood at the edge of the mass of security guards, waiting for them to disperse. When he broke through at last, Enjolras lay on his back. One hand still lay over his heaving chest, pale skin red and shining. Grantaire fell to his knees beside his prone leader. “Enjolras? Can you hear me?”  
“Yes.” Enjolras’s voice rasped out of his broken chest.  
“Sit up. I’ll carry you.” Grantaire laid his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders, around his torso, unsure of the best place for leverage. The untouchable quality of Enjolras’s body, always held composed, disappeared as the man gasped for air.  
“No, I...can’t sit. You have to go. Get...get out of the building.”  
“You have to, dude. You’re our leader. Our Marianne. Our Napoleon, if you want to go there.” Grantaire tried for a smile.  
Enjolras ignored his joke. “Seriously, you have to go. You’re--don’t you get it? You’re my witness. You have to go tell everyone...what happened here.”  
“You don’t come off great in this story.”  
Enjolras made a tsk noise. “It’s not about me. It’s about the Amis. Peaceful protesters attacked. They’re...they’re the heroes of this story.”  
“This is ridiculous, Enjolras. Come on, get up.” Grantaire plucked at Enjolras’s shoulders again, lifting his arm. “Arm around my back, I’ll carry you.”  
“No. Leave me.” His arm slid back down to the floor when Grantaire let go. It trailed blood over the back of Grantaire’s shirt.  
“I’m not going to leave you.”  
“You have to.”  
“I’m not going to! Enjolras, I--” He paused. Confessing love on a deathbed? What good would it do? Enjolras wouldn’t return it. He’d probably just go into the afterlife feeling guilty. “I’m not leaving without you,” he finished awkwardly.  
Blue eyes found Grantaire’s brown ones as Enjolras raised his bloody hand to pat Grantaire’s cheek. His face strained to keep his focus. “It’s okay. You can go.” His eyes slid shut. “I didn’t expect it to go any other way.”  
“Enjolras, please open your eyes.” Grantaire brushed his hands over Enjolras’s face frantically, tapping his cheek in an attempt to revive him. “Come on. Come on, Enjolras, we can’t do this without you.” A voice reverberated in his mind: Stop saying my name like we’re friends. “Please?”  
But Enjolras’s eyes remained closed. His chest stopped heaving, the wet redness stopped catching the light, and his hand fell back to the floor. The muscles in his face relaxed, his eyebrows unfurrowing and his jaw unclenching.  
Grantaire kept one hand on Enjolras’s face as he fumbled on the slick floor for the phone he’d been given. Three missed calls and a text from Combeferre. A text of jumbled letters from Courfeyrac. More missed calls. He tapped Combeferre’s name and held the phone to his ear. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. He hung up.  
A guard stood over him. “It’s fine, I’m going,” Grantaire mumbled. He put his hands up. “See?”  
Another boom. Ow. His hands went to his stomach. The blood on his hands mixed with the blood seeping from his shirt. More people surrounded him, lifting him. “Am I going to jail?”  
“Hospital.” A voice came from near his ear.  
“Take Enjolras too.”  
“He’s dead.”  
“Oh.”  
“Don’t try to talk,” the voice said.  
“Okay.” Grantaire closed his mouth. The stretcher beneath him was soft.  
***  
Grantaire’s mouth was fuzzy when he woke up. He stretched his fingers and toes. As his abdominal muscles worked, a sharp pain flared in his stomach. He tried to clutch the area but found himself hampered by tubes. Reaching out with his left hand, he found the call button and pressed it. He opened his eyes as it gave under his finger. A dappled ceiling came into view. The tap-tap of sensible shoes against linoleum came closer and Grantaire cautiously twisted his neck.  
A young male nurse stood there, sandy blond hair and grey-blue eyes. For a moment Grantaire though Tristan looked back at him. But then the man cleared his throat and spoke, and his voice was too deep and scratchy to be Tristan’s. “Hi, Grantaire. Do you know where you are?”  
“Hospital?” His own voice sounded rough.  
"That's right. Amber Regional. Do you remember how you got here?"  
"Enjolras..."  
“Right again. Enjolras got you here. He tried to kill the President. Do you remember helping him?"  
"I--"  
"It's okay if you don't. You had a lot of drugs in your system when you arrived."  
"I did?" Grantaire squinted. "I haven't taken anything recently."  
"Your bloodwork says you have." The nurse looked at the paperwork in his hands. "Quite a bit of Ativan, some Prozac. Abilify to amplify the antidepressant. Buspar." He looked up. "Are you seeing a psychiatrist?"  
Grantaire shook his head.  
"Well, someone's been giving you medicine for anxiety and major depressive disorder. Not consistently--you don't have those levels of medicine in your system--but occasionally."  
"I don't understand."  
"Your blood had traces of these medicines. You don't remember taking them?"  
"I don't." I already said that.  
"Have you taken food or drink from anyone else? Someone that could have dissolved or crushed a pill into what they gave you?"  
"Enjolras...gave me water a lot."  
The nurse's jaw tightened. "Enjolras?"  
"Mhmm."  
"I see."  
"You think he was drugging me?"  
"These drugs got into your system somehow. You don't have to lie to us if you took them yourself."  
"I didn't." The nurse nodded. "Well, they should be mostly flushed out of your system by now. We'll have you see a psychiatrist soon, see if there was any basis for the medicines Enjolras gave you."  
"Never seen a psychiatrist before."  
"There's a first for everything. If you need anything, press the call button again." He smiled a tiny, professional smile.  
"Wait," Grantaire said. "You have to know--Enjolras only did what he thought was best."  
"I'm sure," the nurse said, frowning now.  
"Really. He wasn't a bad guy."  
"He tried to assassinate the President."  
"He's intense."  
The nurse stared at Grantaire. "Enjolras is lucky he bled out on the floor of the President's office, or he would be tried for treason and attempted murder. I know he brainwashed you--"  
"He did not," Grantaire laughed. "I argued with him more than anyone."  
"Enjolras got you shot. He likely drugged you."  
"To keep me happy!"  
"To keep you complacent."  
"You don't know that."  
The nurse sighed. "I don't. Get some rest, Grantaire. You're still recovering from the gunshot wound to your stomach."  
"Did it hit anything vital?" Grantaire slowly moved his hand to touch his stomach protectively.  
“The bullet clipped your spleen. You lost a lot of blood, and we had to remove your it. Losing a spleen isn’t ideal, but as long as you’re not doing sit-ups or kicks--anything to really engage your core--you’ll be fine.”  
"Gross." The nurse’s mouth quirked into a smile then, before he composed his face once more.  
"You'll be in the hospital for a few days at least, Grantaire. Best to acclimate yourself. When you're a little better, we can go for a walk around the building."  
"I can walk soon?"  
"You can sit in a wheelchair soon," the nurse corrected.  
"Oh."  
"I'll send some food in for you. Then you should rest some more.”  
“I’ll do my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUUN


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire begins recovering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, sorry for the wait. I'll try to be more regular about posting.

The day passed in a blurry haze. Grantaire drifted in and out of sleep thanks to the pain meds being funnelled into his arm. When his stomach started twingeing, he pressed the call button and they gave him more. It wasn’t so bad. The following day, though, passed more slowly than he’d thought possible. He slept a lot still, but had uncomfortable periods of wakefulness. They gave him too much time to think.  _ If Enjolras was drugging me, surely he was doing it to keep me healthy. But why not tell me? Because he liked being in control. But what about consent? He was big on consent. Oh god, he’s dead. _ And repeat. 

A nurse, female this time, came for him with a wheelchair in the afternoon. She treated him like a wounded, skittish animal, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder to wake him. “The psychiatrist wants to see you.” When he tried to sit up his abdomen flared again, worse than it had before, and he fell back to the bed with a sharp inhale. “Let me help.” The nurse’s small hands curved around his shoulders. He leaned into her and used his arms to push himself up this time, moving gingerly. He had a sudden memory of his own hands, curved around Enjolras’s body, trying to get him to sit up. He gasped again. “Easy does it.”

She took most of Grantaire’s weight as he slid off the bed and into the chair. She settled him into the wheelchair and tucked him into it as if into a bed. Then the nurse wheeled him around and they left his hospital room. The hallway of the hospital had that yellowish tinge of all hospitals, the faintly patterned walls, the shiny linoleum floors.  _ I must be in a rich-people hospital _ , Grantaire thought. They went into an elevator and went up two floors, then exited onto a warmer floor. This was carpeted in brown and had simple, soothing artwork on the walls, flowers and landscapes. 

The nurse wheeled Grantaire further down the hallway, then stopped at a closed door. She knocked. They waited in silence until the door opened and a woman in her fifties greeted them. She had dark, curly hair, and wore glasses. "Hello. Grantaire?" She reached down to shake his hand. 

It took him a moment to realize what she wanted, and he thrust his hand out awkwardly to meet hers. "Hi." 

"I'm Doctor Ashen. Please, come in." She held the door open for him and the nurse wheeled him in, depositing him in front of the couch before leaving. It was uncomfortably close to the doctor’s desk chair. Grantaire shifted in his chair awkwardly. “So, tell me what brings you here.”

“To the hospital, or to you, or…?”

“Wherever you want.”

“I’m here because Enjolras tried to kill the President and I got shot and then they found medicines in my system and they think Enjolras gave them to me. And they want to see if I’m mentally ill. Or brainwashed. Or both.” He looked down at his hands. “I guess that’s where you come in.”

“It is. Why don’t you tell me about how you helped Enjolras?" 

"I went with him to the capitol with everyone else. And then he said I had to go with him to meet with the President." 

"And why did you go?" 

"He asked me to. Said he needed my input." 

"Did you do whatever Enjolras told you to?" Dr. Ashen crossed her legs at the knee. 

"No," Grantaire scoffed. "I argued with him all the time. Only way to get his attention." 

"You wanted his attention?" 

"Of course. Have you seen the man? He's beautiful." Grantaire cringed again at the present tense.  _ He’s dead.  _

"Did you love him?" 

"I think unrequited love is a farce. It's just projection. It's not real love, just wishing." 

"So you had feelings for him, but they were unreturned." 

"Right." Grantaire shifted again. 

"So you argued with him a lot. But did you do what he asked?" 

Grantaire thought. He'd gone with Enjolras wherever he asked, showed up to meetings, drank his drugged water... "I guess so." 

"I see. And why?" 

"Because he asked." 

"Okay." She paused and looked at a paper on her desk. "Now, let's talk about the other parts of your life. What are your hobbies?" 

"I like being with my friends." 

“The Amis?”

“Right.”

“Anything else? Are you in school?”

"I dropped out. Too expensive. Not smart enough for it to be worth it." 

"Have you had any suicidal thoughts, or thoughts of hurting yourself or others? Thoughts that you'd be better off dead?" 

"Hasn't everyone?" 

"Not everyone. Have you?" 

Grantaire sighed. "Yeah." 

"Do you ever get nervous, or antsy?" 

"All the time." 

"What do you do when that happens?" 

"Usually I just hide in my room until it goes away. I take a nap." He paused. "Enjolras used to give me water when I got anxious. Something to do with my hands, he said. I guess it had anxiety drugs in it." 

"You had quite a bit of Ativan in your blood when you were admitted. Do you know what that is?" 

"No." 

"It's a medicine that treats the physical symptoms of anxiety: racing heart, fast thoughts. It can make you sleepy. People often take it when they are very anxious. It can be addictive if taken often enough." 

"And you think Enjolras gave me that when I got anxious?" 

"Yes." 

"Sounds nice." 

"You don't seem very upset at the thought of being drugged by the man you were in love with." 

Grantaire shrugged. "He had good reasons, I'm sure." 

"You should know that Enjolras had a lot of drugs in his system too. Some Ativan, like you, as well as a whole lot of Adderall.” Grantaire stared back at her silently. She sighed. “Grantaire, it's important that you know what we're thinking, legally. To us, it seems like Enjolras was the leader of the cult made up of the Amis.”

"A cult?" Grantaire laughed. 

"Can you tell me why that's funny?" 

"It's just--not true. We weren't a cult. We had our own lives and everything. No crazy religious beliefs here." 

"But Enjolras was your leader, no? And people followed him?" 

"Well, not blindly. I mean, we could think for ourselves and stuff." 

"Grantaire, we at the hospital are prepared to testify to your plea to insanity." 

"So you brought me here to decide I'm crazy?" Grantaire crossed his arms and stared at her. "What are you going to do with me?" 

Dr. Ashen leaned forward in her chair and fixed Grantaire with an earnest expression, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "When your body has recovered from your splenectomy and the trauma of your gunshot wound, you will be transferred to a psychiatric care facility. Eventually you will go to trial, when the courts have enough evidence. You're safe now, Grantaire." 

"Glad to hear it. We about done?" He wished he could stand and walk out of his own accord. Instead, he waited as the doctor called for a nurse to come retrieve him. 

“How was it?” The nurse who had come for him was a tall blonde woman. 

“Fine.”

Back in his hospital room, the blonde nurse lifted him out of the wheelchair and back into his bed. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll bring your new meds when the doctor sends down the prescription.” She left.

He tried settling on his back, staring at the grey ceiling. He tried curling up on his side and was glad that the tubes were gone. He tried the other side. Nothing worked, and he laid awake, heart pounding in his chest. He could hear it in his ears. Was he breathing loudly? Oh, he wasn’t getting much air. Probably not good. He reached for the call button and waited for the sound of those shoes against the floor. His eyes were squished shut. “I can’t breathe.” 

A hand touched his back gently. “Slow breaths. In and out.”

“I can’t.”

“You can do it.”

Grantaire slowly uncurled his spine, straightening on the bed. “I don’t feel good.”

“Sit up for me, Grantaire. I’ve got some water for you.” The hand continued to rub his back.

“I don’t--I can’t--I think I’m going to throw up.” He stuck his head out over the side of the bed just in time to miss the bed and throw up all over the clean floor. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Have some water. It’ll make you feel better.”

He opened one eye. Blue scrubs covered long legs and brushed the tops of clean white sneakers. It looked like they had stepped clear of his mess before it happened. A pale hand held out a plastic cup of water. Grantaire slowly looked up to meet the nurse’s eyes.

Enjolras looked down at him. “You’re in withdrawal. Take this.” He held out a small white pill.

“You’re joking.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Take the Ativan, Grantaire. Is this fun for you?”

Grantaire sighed and reached out cautiously for the pill. He expected his stomach to twinge as he stretched, but no pain came. He took the pill and put it in his mouth. Enjolras nudged his hand with the cup of water, and he took that too and drank. The small pill went down easily.

“There you go. Best to sleep now. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

“But--”

“They wouldn’t believe you anyway. You should lay down, you’ll strain yourself.” Enjolras ran a hand over Grantaire’s forehead. “Shh. It’s okay.” He put a hand to Grantaire’s chest and pushed him to lay flat. “Go to sleep.”

Grantaire felt a bright stab of pain in his stomach as he hit the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. When he blinked them open, the door to his room was shut and Enjolras was gone. He blinked again. A nurse and doctor stood over him. The nurse’s hand was on his forehead. “Grantaire?”

“Where…”

“You’re in the hospital. You just had a small seizure.”

“What?”

“Confusion is normal. Just rest, you’ll be back to normal soon.”

Grantaire nodded. He  _ was _ really tired. And his muscles hurt--not just where he’d been shot, but all over. He could feel consciousness slipping away from him, like something falling out of his hand. He sank into sleep gratefully.

***

The seizure was declared a symptom of his withdrawal from Ativan. Grantaire listened silently to Dr. Parsons’ explanation. He didn’t mention his visit from Enjolras. He’d been told not to, after all. “It’s liable to happen again, unfortunately. How are you feeling now?”

“I’m fine.” It had been a day since the seizure, complete with MRI and more blood tests. Grantaire wished he’d been unconscious for this round of bloodwork, wished he hadn’t felt the sharp pull of the needle under his skin. He scratched at the bruise-bump left behind in the crook of his elbow. 

“Good. Any anxiety? Shortness of breath?”

“A little.”  _ I saw a dead person _ . “My hands have been shaking a bit.”

“That’s normal. We’ll just have to wait it out. The drug should be mostly out of your system by now--your body isn’t used to not having another dose.”

“Got it.”

“We can give you some Neurontin to help with the symptoms. It’ll be a short course of it, because Neurontin can become addictive too. But it should help you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll let you get some rest. We’ll move you to the psychiatric facility soon.”

“Okay.” 

Dr. Parsons nodded perfunctorily and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut until sleep took him again.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire returns to Amis HQ.

Grantaire’s face was pressed into the pillow when he awoke. He groaned and pushed himself up to lay on his back, rubbing his eyes. He blinked a few times and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark room. The clock on the wall said it was 2:17 in the morning. 

“Hi.”

Grantaire jumped and searched the dark room for the source of the voice. “Hello?”

“Over here.” 

Grantaire caught sight of motion in the right-hand corner. A hand waving, attached to an arm, attached to a man in scrubs. Glinting eyes looked out from a face that belonged on a late Roman statue, all refined with a long straight nose over a small mouth. Grantaire covered his own face with his hands. “You’re not real. Go away.”

“I am real,” Enjolras said. He moved quickly to stand by the hospital bed.  “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Grantaire opened his eyes for a better look. “They’re still treating me for a gunshot wound. Which  _ you _ caused.”

Enjolras scoffed at him. Grantaire revelled in it. “You’re fine. Just take it easy. I’ve got a wheelchair and everything.” He pointed to the foot of the bed, where a wheelchair was indeed waiting. 

“I’m not going with you.” 

“What?” Enjolras frowned. “Of course you are. You want to be put in a psych ward for the rest of your life?”

“They said we’re a  _ cult _ , Enjolras. You got me addicted to a drug and now I’ve had a seizure trying to get un-addicted. Also,” Grantaire pointed out, “You’re dead. So just leave me alone. I want to get better.”

“No you don’t,” Enjolras said softly. “You want life back the way it was. You want to be with us again. You want to be with me.”

Grantaire stared up at him. “You’re dead,” he repeated weakly. 

“I’m not. The others are okay, too. Just recovering. Like you and me. Come with me, Grantaire. We can be together.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to scoff. “You want to be with me? What’d you do, hit your head on the way down? No way. Just leave me alone.”

“If that’s what you want, I’ll go.” But Enjolras’s hand came up to cup Grantaire’s cheek. It was kind of diametrically opposed to leaving him alone. Grantaire didn’t mind. He stared up into the blue eyes that had been haunting him and sighed. Enjolras let go, and walked slowly to the door.

“Wait.”

Enjolras turned back, his eyes catching the light. “What for?”

“Help me get into the wheelchair.”

Enjolras rushed back to the bed and put one arm under Grantaire’s back and the other under his knees. “I’m glad you decided to come with me. Be quiet, we don’t want anyone to notice us.” It was the most they’d ever touched before. Grantaire winced--it was like getting too close to the sun. Enjolras would surely see all the imperfections he’d managed to hide so far. But Enjolras’s eyes stayed locked on Grantaire’s until it became necessary to look at the wheelchair as he deposited his cargo in it. Eyes on the floor, he noticed that Enjolras was wearing the same pristine white sneakers that he’d been wearing when he gave Grantaire the Ativan.  _ Maybe it was real. _

They walked (or wheeled, as it was) through the hospital at a professionally speedy clip. None of the nurses recognized Enjolras, but his confidence when he nodded in greeting convinced them that he was one of their own. The soft beeps of various hospital machinery followed them to the elevator. Rather than taking the risk of exiting through the lobby, they went straight to the garage. A short man wearing glasses was idling in the driver’s seat of a silver Prius. He looked extraordinarily bored. It was Combeferre. 

He turned when Enjolras opened one of the doors to the back seat. Something glinted in his hand before he settled it into the drawer of the dashboard console. Combeferre met his eyes as Enjolras helped him into the back seat. “Hi, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire expected Enjolras to join Combeferre in the front of the car, but instead he circled around, leaving the wheelchair in the trunk, and sat next to Grantaire in the back.

“Nice to see you, uh, hale and hearty.”

“And you.” Combeferre started the car. They passed the pay station without incident and exited the hospital silently. Grantaire turned to watch the retreating building. 

Enjolras turned too. “Did you want to go to the psych ward?” he asked quietly. 

“Not at all.”  _ But maybe,  _ Grantaire thought,  _ I should have. Rather than going with a dead would-be assassin.  _ But then, if Enjolras was a ghost, how had he picked Grantaire up and wheeled him out of the hospital?  _ Maybe it’s a Tyler Durden thing. _

“Good. I’d hate to make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

_ Except drug me and almost get me killed.  _ But it was hardly the time to confront him--not when he was liberating Grantaire, and not when Combeferre was there to listen. But he’d have to do it before Enjolras had him back under his thrall. Grantaire rested his head on his hand, propped against the window, and watched the grounds of the hospital disappear behind them. He had been right before--it was a rich-people hospital. A government owned one, but a nice one. Socialized healthcare at its best, or most corrupt, if you knew how shitty most other hospitals were. Which Grantaire did. In a perverse way he felt smug at having been in a fancy hospital, like he’d snuck in without permission. 

The grounds were lush with greenery, perfectly groomed topiary lining the fountains and walkways. The place was massive. Grantaire counted five buildings besides the one he’d come from, and could see a roof here and a terrace there of still more buildings. The moonlight made the stone paths and buildings look silvery, the trees and bushes dark and shadowy. Had this been outside his window this whole time? It was almost a shame he’d never gotten to go on that walk with the nurse. But given the choice between Enjolras and a random nurse, no matter how nice, he’d always choose Enjolras. 

They left the hospital grounds without fanfare and returned to the real world with its stubbly asphalt and street lights. The hospital was situated in a rich neighborhood, naturally, with extravagant homes and absolutely no potholes in the roads. It made Grantaire feel vaguely sick. He closed his eyes and breathed like Dr. Ashen had showed him. 

A hand tapped his knee. Enjolras’s torso was twisted to face him. He held out a round white pill in one hand and a water bottle in the other. 

Grantaire glowered and shook his head  _ no. _

Enjolras frowned and withdrew his offerings. He slipped the pill into an unseen pocket and drank from the water bottle himself. Combeferre tried to catch each of their eyes in succession, but was ignored. Grantaire conspicuously ignored Enjolras, staring blankly out his window, and missed Combeferre’s attempt to engage him. He felt Enjolras’s eyes on him like a brand. Out of the corner of his eye Grantaire saw the man beside him frowning. Was he confused? Did he really not get that Grantaire didn’t want any more drugs? It had been four days since his seizure. If Enjolras had been in the hospital before, and had given him more Ativan, it had surely worn off by now. Was he in the clear with the withdrawal symptoms, though? He’d hate to throw up in Combeferre’s fancy car.

Like Enjolras, Combeferre had come from a rich family, though less so than Enjolras’s. They were full to the brim of doctors and lawyers and other professionals deemed Important to Society. Combeferre had followed their lead for a while with medical school, good grades and all that. He’d been dating Courfeyrac since high school. She had been Max then. Having their sons dating had been a bit of a sticking point for their parents. Somehow it got better when Max became Courfeyrac, and their parents could tell themselves their kids were in a straight relationship. 

In all honesty, their social status started going downhill when they met Enjolras. Sure, he was of a higher social stratum than Combeferre’s professional family and Courfeyrac’s military one. But Enjolras was already awful at living up to his parents’ expectations by then. He railed against professors in undergrad, where they all met, and went to law school in the short-lived hopes of making a difference from the inside. That didn’t last long. He dropped out. His parents kept funneling him the frankly outrageous tuition money in the hopes that he’d go back. 

And look where they were now. Breaking their miscreant friend(?) out of the hospital. Only Enjolras could get out of this one. Speaking of which… “How are you not in jail?”

Enjolras’s eyes widened briefly before he answered smoothly. “Oh, you know, the best lawyers money can buy and all that.” He picked a piece of fuzz from his fake nurse scrubs. 

Grantaire pulled his hospital blanket tighter around his body. “You let them get you out? What about the legal process? What about  _ justice _ ?” Yes, this was familiar territory, annoying Enjolras with questions. He received that precious annoyed reaction when Enjolras flared his nostrils. 

“I can do more good outside of jail.”

Grantaire was still too tired, too shell-shocked by their daring escape from the hospital to keep needling Enjolras. He elected not to reply at all and let the other man stew in his own juices.

The next thing Grantaire registered was his head bouncing against the window as they hit a bump in the road.  _ Return to pothole-land.  _ They pulled into a driveway and then a garage a few minutes later. Grantaire was still rubbing his eyes and yawning to release the residual sleepiness from his nap. The dashboard clock told him it was close to four in the morning. He waited impotently as Enjolras retrieved the wheelchair from the trunk of the Prius. Again Enjolras helped him into the chair and again Grantaire was conscious of his own body, mediocre at best, touching Enjolras’s beautiful one. It was meager comfort to remind himself that Enjolras literally did not care enough to be uncomfortable. 

He winced as Enjolras dropped him into the chair again, perhaps a little less attentively than before. “Payback?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Enjolras wheeled him to the inner door of the garage. Combeferre, silent throughout the drive, lifted the front of the chair while Enjolras lifted the back. They buoyed him over the steps up to the rest of the house. He’d never seen Combeferre’s home before. It was small and surprisingly messy. There was a conspicuous lack of books, at least until he saw the e-reader plugged into a laptop on a desk in the corner. But a more pleasing sight awaited Grantaire in the living room: the rest of the Amis sprawled over the couch, chairs, and floor. They bounded up to greet him when they saw Grantaire in the doorway, flanked by Enjolras and Combeferre. The core seven other members were there--Grantaire was happy to see Courfeyrac looking fully recovered--save for one missing face. 

“Where’s Jehan?”

Musichetta, who had been saying hello, averted her eyes. 

"Where is he? The rest of you are here, where's he run off to?" She said nothing. Grantaire twisted in the chair, ignoring the pull in his side, to look askance at Enjolras. "Where is he, Enjolras?" 

"Let's talk somewhere else," Enjolras suggested. He wheeled the chair around as Grantaire protested. 

"I don't want to talk somewhere else. Just tell me. Where is he?" 

But Enjolras continued on his path and took Grantaire to a small room next to the kitchen. He positioned Grantaire facing the bed and sat down on it. 

"When you and I got shot...most everyone got off fine. Something about a cult, I don't know." He waved a dismissive hand. 

"But?" 

"But, ah, Jehan...didn't." 

"Didn't what?" 

"Didn't get out." 

"So where is he? Jail? Hospital, like me?" 

Enjolras held Grantaire’s gaze steadily. "We had a funeral service two weeks ago." 

Grantaire leaned away from him. "No." 

"I'm sorry. I know you were close--" 

"You're lying. This is just a trick to--to--" 

"I'm sorry." 

He tried to stand, to walk, to get away from him, but Enjolras caught his shoulders and held him down in the wheelchair. Grantaire wriggled in his grasp. “Let me go!”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said again. “I can’t. You’ll hurt yourself.” He held Grantaire by the shoulders tightly. 

“Well now you’re hurting me, so let go.” The other man loosened his grip as Grantaire wrenched free of Enjolras’s hold. Pain exploded in his abdomen and tears came to his eyes as he gasped.

Enjolras knelt before him, pushing the wheelchair further from the bed. His hands went to Grantaire’s knees, a comforting weight rather than a restricting one. “Are you okay?”

“Hurts,” he gasped. 

“Where?” Enjolras reached out gently to touch Grantaire’s side above the wound.

“Don’t, you’ll make it worse.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He withdrew his hand. Grantaire missed the warmth.

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

“Can you just take me home? I’m so tired, Enjolras.”

“Well, I’m not going to apologize, since you said not to, but your apartment’s been rented out to someone else. I checked before we got you out.”

“So where am I supposed to stay?”

“You’ll stay here, with the rest of us. It’s cozy, but you’ll fit.”

Grantaire wasn’t surprised to learn that Enjolras had commandeered Combeferre’s house for the Amis as a group. They had swarmed over the place after their run-in with the guards at the capital. It was just a matter of logistics, Enjolras said. They might be targeted. Better to stay together, in the same place. It had been weeks now with no sign of dispersal. Enjolras said he’d noticed someone tailing him when he went to get groceries.  _ Maybe he isn’t as immune as he thought.  _ But nothing had come of it, no one knocking at the door looking for them. Just half-seen people trailing them when they ventured out into the neighborhood. 

Combeferre had chosen his locale well. It was a fairly nice neighborhood befitting a young man in med school, one where his Prius wouldn’t get broken into, but not so fancy that he couldn’t afford it with his parents’ help. It was urban enough that no one noticed quite how many people were living in one small dwelling. 

Grantaire could see why it was the place Enjolras had chosen for his new headquarters. He had no choice of returning to his separate home, and he needed the Amis’ help getting around anyway. There was no way he would have been able to get up to his fourth floor walk-up. 

As it was, he relied heavily on the Amis for mobility. It took two people to get him into the garage and back, so he rarely left the house even though there were always plenty of people around. His friends were surprisingly healthy, given the bloody scene he and Enjolras had been privy to in the President’s office, but he didn’t want them doing the heavy lifting required to carry him and his chair. 

Combeferre’s home did have a second floor, which Grantaire never saw. Supposedly there were more rooms up there that had been taken over for use as bedrooms. Bahorel and Feuilly shared a room, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were in the original bedroom, and Musichetta roomed with Bossuet and Joly. It seemed they all had to sacrifice their personal space in the name of sticking together. If they’d still had Jehan there would have been one lone person. Grantaire wanted to take the room that would have been his but was denied. It was up too many stairs, and Grantaire wouldn’t want to go up and down that many steps multiple times a day, Enjolras said. 

The only other option was to stay in the small guest room Enjolras had first taken him to. Enjolras lived there now. Spartan though it had seemed at first glance, it was selectively personalized. Enjolras’s collection of gadgets, including the laptop still in beta-testing, rested on the windowsill. They were piled up on top of each other and toppled over occasionally. The small twin bed Enjolras had perched on that first day was the only sleeping space. 

“Can we bring in an air mattress, at least?” Grantaire had asked. 

“There aren’t any,” Enjolras told him. 

“We could  _ buy one _ , Enjolras. They’re like twenty bucks. Don’t tell me we don’t have money for that.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras had said. He sounded rather unrepentant. 

“So you’re forcing me to sleep with you? That doesn’t seem very consent-focused.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Sorry,” he repeated. 

And that was that.


End file.
